


Advent: Kink

by FyrMaiden



Series: Klaine Advent 2015 [11]
Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5408939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Kurt hurts his back, Santana has the perfect solution: the name and number of a masseur who can help unkink his spine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent: Kink

On the third day of Kurt complaining his back and how much it hurts to sit or stand or lie or laugh or cough or do pretty much anything at all, Santana says, “What you need is a tiny Filipino to walk down your spine.” 

Rachel gasps a scandalised “Santana!”, and Kurt raises both eyebrows at her. Santana rolls her eyes and crosses her arms beneath her breasts and says, “What? Look, it’s a stereotype because it’s true.”

“No,” Kurt says. “It’s not true. Were you raised by wolves?” Santana doesn’t respond, so he tries something different. 

“I mean, you’re Mexican, right?” he says. “Are you in a gang? Everyone knows it’s a fact; Mexicans in the US are definitely all in gangs.” 

Santana gives him her middle finger. “I know I could have you killed and no one would find your body, naco.” She’s silent for a moment, and then, “But look, seriously. My mom used to see this Sri Lankan woman who practiced Ayurveda, and she said it was the best massage she’d ever had. She said it made her feel boneless for hours.” 

“How do you leap from Sri Lanka to the Philippines?” Kurt asks, and grimaces as he shifts on the couch. He’s four painkillers into a long day, and he’s starting to wonder how many counts as too many and if he can persuade Rachel to run to the nearest pharmacy for whatever the strongest thing is that she can get without a prescription. She’s hovering at the end of the couch as it is, poised to leap if he so much as emits a groan. It’s wearing thin, as much as he appreciates the attention.

“Because,” Santana says, crossing the loft to grab her bag from the kitchen counter. “I was talking to Dani after our shift at the diner, and she suggested this kid she goes to for massage after roller derby, and I said, there’s no way Princess Hummel is going to get a sports massage and she said that actually, this kid practices tui na.” 

“That’s Chinese,” Rachel pipes up, and Santana arches an eyebrow. “I know because one of the tech crew at the theater is into Traditional Chinese Medicine.” 

“I’m still not seeing how we go from here to ‘You need a tiny Filipino to walk up and down your spine’,” Kurt says. 

“Because,” Santana says, aggrieved now, and throws a card at Kurt. “The boy’s name is Blaine Anderson, and he’s licensed in the grand state of New York to practice. And apparently, Dani says, he’s at least half magician.” And then, because she can’t not have the last word, “I’m sorry for caring.” 

Kurt picks the card up out of his lap and reads the details, and the number printed on the bottom. “Is he the tiny Filipino?” he asks, and then, “How do you know he’s either tiny or Filipino?” 

“Because I have to live with you and the singing dwarf, and I checked him out yesterday,” she says. “There’s only so much singing into spatulas my spleen can take, so I took my part of the tip jar and some of my wages and I got a massage.”

“And what, he’s wearing a label that says ‘I’m Filipino, judge me’?” 

“Look,” Santana says, “Take the card, don’t take the card. It doesn’t matter to me.” She throws her hands in the air and spins away from him, stalks back toward her small curtained partition and shouts, “You try to do one nice thing and this is the thanks. Dios mio! He told me, when I told him about my mom’s masseuse. Happy?” 

Kurt takes the card and, a week later when a warm shower and gentle yoga results in his spine audibly cracking and him standing upright without pain for the first time in what was starting to feel like forever, he digs it out of his wallet again. He has nothing to lose, he thinks, and perhaps regular massage - and not skimping on yoga or cool down exercises after dance to save himself twenty minutes - will work wonders. 

When he shows up at the address - a small apartment building, with a buzzer system and the name B. Anderson on the corresponding label - he doesn’t know quite what to expect. But one thing is certain, the young man with tan skin and a warm, easy smile who lets him into the small apartment isn’t it.

And he’s not sure how it happens, but when he leaves, it’s with a second appointment and the firm impression that Blaine - “Please, call me Blaine,” with a small bow of his head and a sincerity that blew Kurt’s mind - genuinely seemed to like him.

Maybe next time, he thinks, as he heads for the nearest subway entrance and the train back home, he can leave with an appointment to see him out of work as well.


End file.
